


Glow

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-22
Updated: 2016-10-22
Packaged: 2018-08-23 22:38:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8345461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Bard wakes up first.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BelsanEmpress](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BelsanEmpress/gifts).



> A/N: Fill for pepitaladinamita’s “some Bardfrid of yours? Maybe something less angsty than it's usual for the ship” request on [my tumblr](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

He wakes up disgruntled, rudely jarred out of his dream by Alfrid’s cold foot. He can still feel it resting against the back of his calf, and then Alfrid gives another little twitch that rams into Bard’s ankle. He just grunts and readjusts, but it’s too late. He’s awake now. If he were home, he’d just get up and go make the kids breakfast.

But he’s in _Alfrid’s_ home, Sigrid left to babysit, and Bard has no particular desire to serve Alfrid and make this any more domestic than it already is.

He rolls over instead, then has to scrunch his eyes closed against the blare of sunlight—Alfrid’s curtains are, surprisingly, just as tattered as everyone else’s in Laketown. Apparently being the Master’s toady only takes him so far. The early morning light still splashes in through holes in the fabric that Bard could offer to mend but won’t.

The bed, at least, isn’t uncomfortable. It’s warm under the covers, fanned with that odd paradox of Alfrid’s overall body heat despite the frigid surface of his skin. The mattress isn’t too lumpy, the springs not too worn, the blankets thick and piled high atop both of them. Bard’s acutely aware of just how naked they are underneath. Alfrid’s three-quarters onto his side, his chin lolled against one bare shoulder. His skin looks alabaster pale next to the darkness of his frazzled hair, the bed-mussed strands strewn about his pillow. His stubble’s too thick, his brow too overgrown. 

But the cut of his jaw isn’t bad. The taut lines of his neck and shoulders are hardly off putting. He looks strangely peaceful when he sleeps. Bard thinks, not for the first time, that Alfrid could be sort of cute with a bit of work. Cute enough, at least. Never fully handsome, never beautiful, but attractive, in a unique, succinct sort of way. Bard likes to think there’s potential in everyone. 

He dares to reach one hand out of the safety of the blankets’ heat to rearrange some of the bedraggled hair sweat-slicked across Alfrid’s cheeks. They went hard last night, as rigorous as ever, started off with an argument about something or other and ended up _here_ , like they often do now, now that Sigrid’s old enough to watch the others and Bard’s to weary to fight his own wants. He doesn’t usually stay the night. He was feeling benevolent this time. 

A package showed up yesterday with a new dress for Tilda. There’s only one person it could be from. Alfrid won’t admit it, but Bard knows. He knows that some could argue Alfrid’s trying to buy his love. But neither of them will ever tell anyone, so Bard will never have to hear that lecture, and the memory of his daughter’s smile makes it easier to shift closer under the blankets and share his warmth with Alfrid.

Then Alfrid stirs, sniffs and snuggles into the pillow, like some little rabbit trying to burrow deeper. His eyes blink tiredly open, and when he sees Bard, his lips twist into a groggy, delighted smile.

It disappears as soon as his eyes open all the way. Consciousness brings back his frown, and Alfrid mutters around a quickly-squelched yawn, “You’re still here.” He sounds disbelieving.

“I am,” Bard concedes. He gets a subtle joy, an abrupt tightening of his chest, when Alfrid’s eyes light with hopeful adoration. It’s nice, even through a barrage of insults and pestering, to know how desperately he’s wanted. He suggests, setting ground rules on his own terms, “If you make me breakfast, I’ll stay even longer.”

It’s new ground. Alfrid’s suspicious features twist into a wary glare.

But he slips out the other side of the blankets. He fumbles his way into the robe hanging over one drawer of his dresser, making it harder for himself by keeping his gaze fixed on Bard. Bard stretches out and lounges in the bed like he belongs in it, and maybe in some sick way, he does.

Then Alfrid scurries off towards the kitchen, and the small house soon smells of frying eggs.


End file.
